Chapter 5 - Alice
Did I just say *date*?
Oh God, I did. I actually said the word "date" out loud, to a man I barely know, while his four-year-old daughter sits right there listening to every mortifying word coming out of my mouth.
I can feel the heat flooding my cheeks, probably turning them that bright pink color that happens when I'm embarrassed or anxious or both. Which I definitely am. Both. Very much both.
"I mean—" I start again, then force myself to stop. I'm making it worse. Every word I add is making it exponentially worse.
Carter is still smiling. Not a big smile, just that small one that barely touches his lips but reaches his eyes. Like he's amused but not in a mean way. More like he finds my complete lack of social grace endearing instead of pathetic.
"Eight o'clock," he repeats. "We'll be there."
Maya is already planning her pancake order out loud—chocolate chips and whipped cream if they have it, with strawberries on top, and maybe bacon on the side, but only if it's the crispy kind. Biscuit is still in heaven with his head on my lap, tail thumping against the floor every few seconds.
Everything is fine. Normal. I didn't just completely humiliate myself.
Except I kind of did.
"I should probably get going," I say, even though I don't particularly want to. Which is its own kind of dangerous. I came here to thank him, and I did. Mission accomplished. Anything beyond that is just me hoping for something I shouldn't be hoping for.
"Yeah, we should probably get Maya to bed soon," Carter says, glancing at his daughter who is absolutely not displaying any signs of tiredness whatsoever. "Long day tomorrow."
"Right. Yes. Of course." I gently nudge Biscuit's head off my lap and slide out of the booth. He follows reluctantly, probably hoping Maya will somehow come home with us.
Maya hugs Biscuit goodbye like they're lifelong friends being separated by war. "I'll see you tomorrow, Biscuit! We're gonna have pancakes!"
"He's very excited about that," I assure her, even though Biscuit has no idea what pancakes are beyond the vague concept of "food that sometimes falls on the floor."
I look at Carter. He's standing now, and I can see the bandages on his knuckles from last night. The bruise along his jaw that's already turning purple. The exhaustion in his eyes that never quite goes away, even when he smiles.
He told me his whole past tonight. Just laid it out there like he was reading off a grocery list, but I heard what was underneath it.
The betrayal. The loss. The way he trusted people who turned out to be monsters, the way he watched good men die for believing in something that didn't exist anymore.
He saw people die. Maybe killed people himself. He didn't say it explicitly, but I could read between the lines. Could hear it in the way he worded things, the way he talked about fights like they were foregone conclusions.
This man has lived a life I can't even imagine. Violence and loss and a kind of darkness I've only ever seen in movies. And yet he's here, taking care of his daughter, probably reading her stories every night, making sure she eats her vegetables. Fighting three men to protect a stranger.
How can someone like that be a bad person?
He can't. I know it in my bones, even though the logical part of my brain is screaming that I'm being naive, that I'm letting a pretty face and a heroic gesture override common sense.
But there's nothing pretty about Carter. He's hard edges and old scars and eyes that have seen too much. There's nothing soft about him except the way he looks at his daughter.
And maybe that's exactly what I need to focus on. Not the violence or the darkness, but the fact that he tried to stop his MC from going down a bad route. That he and his brother fought for what was right even when it cost them everything.
That's not a bad man. That's a fighter. A survivor.
"Thank you," I say again, because I don't know what else to say. "For everything. For last night, for tonight, for agreeing to breakfast even though I completely embarrassed myself with that whole date comment—"
"You didn't embarrass yourself," Carter says quietly. His eyes meet mine, and there's something in them I can't quite read. "You're fine, Alice. Better than fine."
The way he says my name does something to my chest. Something warm and dangerous and completely terrifying.
"I'll see you tomorrow," I manage. "Eight o'clock."
"Eight o'clock," he confirms.
Maya waves enthusiastically as Biscuit and I head for the door. "Bye, Ms. Alice! Bye, Biscuit!"
The cool evening air hits my face as we step outside, and I take a deep breath, trying to calm my racing heart. Biscuit immediately starts pulling toward home, ready for dinner and probably confused about why we stopped at the grill instead of just walking past like usual.
"I'm an idiot," I tell him as we walk. "A complete and total idiot who said the word 'date' to a man I barely know."
Biscuit doesn't comment, just keeps walking with his tail wagging because in his world, everything is good and nothing is complicated.
I wish I had that kind of simple optimism.
By the time we get home, my phone has three texts from Claire.
*You alive?*
*It's been an hour. Where are you?*
*ALICE MARIE PORTER IF YOU DON'T TEXT ME BACK IN THE NEXT FIVE MINUTES I'M CALLING THE POLICE*
I text back quickly: *Sorry! I'm fine. Was at Murphy's. Home now.*
Her response is immediate: *Murphy's? Why were you at Murphy's? Did something happen?*
I stare at my phone, trying to figure out how to explain this. *Remember the guy who saved me last night? I ran into him. Literally. Well, not literally. He was having dinner with his daughter.*
The dots appear and disappear several times before her response comes through: *And???*
*And we talked. And I invited him to breakfast tomorrow.*
*YOU WHAT*
*It's not like that! His daughter wants to see Biscuit again. It's just pancakes. Very public, very casual pancakes.*
*Uh huh. Sure. "Just pancakes." That's what they all say.*
*I hate you.*
*No you don't. You love me because I'm the only person who will tell you the truth, which is that this is AMAZING and you need to wear something cute tomorrow.*
I groan out loud, making Biscuit look at me with concern. *It's not a date!*
*You keep telling yourself that, babe. I'll be over at 7am to help you pick an outfit.*
*Claire, NO—*
*See you at 7! xoxo*
I give up and toss my phone on the couch. Claire is impossible when she gets an idea in her head, and apparently she's decided that breakfast with Carter and Maya is some kind of romantic milestone.
It's not. It's just breakfast. Just pancakes and coffee and a four-year-old who likes my dog.
Except I can't stop thinking about the way he looked at me when he said I was "better than fine." Can't stop replaying our conversation, the way he opened up about his past, the small smile that made something flutter in my chest.
I feed Biscuit, who acts like he hasn't eaten in weeks despite the fact that he gets the same amount of food at the same time every single day, and make myself a sandwich I don't really want.
Then I shower, change into pajamas, and stare at my closet like it holds the answers to the universe.
What does one wear for "not a date" breakfast with a former MC member and his adorable daughter?
Next Day
I barely sleep.
Every time I start to doze off, my brain helpfully reminds me of every awkward thing I said tonight.
The "date" comment, obviously. But also the way I rambled about the school.
The way I probably talked too much about Biscuit.
The way I just sat there staring at him while he told me about watching people die.
God, I'm a mess.
By the time Claire shows up at seven, punctual despite my desperate hope that she'd forget or oversleep, I'm already on my third cup of coffee and second outfit attempt.
"Okay, what are we working with?" she asks, breezing past me into my bedroom like she owns the place. Biscuit follows her, tail wagging, because Claire always brings him treats.
"It's not a date," I say for what feels like the thousandth time.
"Right, right. Not a date. Just breakfast with a hot biker who saved you from three attackers and apparently has a tragic past and a cute kid." Claire starts rifling through my closet with the efficiency of a military general. "Totally normal Tuesday morning activity."
"He's not—I mean, I don't know if he's hot. I haven't really thought about it that way."
Claire turns to look at me, one eyebrow raised so high it's practically in her hairline. "You are the worst liar I've ever met."
"Fine. He's attractive. In a scary, dangerous, has-probably-killed-people kind of way."
"The best kind of attractive," Claire says cheerfully, pulling out a blue sweater I forgot I owned. "This. With your dark jeans. The ones that actually fit properly, not the ones you hide in because you're convinced everyone is judging your body."
I take the sweater from her, holding it up. It's soft, flattering, the kind of blue that apparently makes my eyes look good. My ex hated this sweater. Said it was too tight, too attention-seeking.
Which probably means it's perfect.
"I don't know," I say anyway, because old habits die hard. "Maybe something more casual? I don't want to look like I'm trying too hard."
"Alice." Claire sits on my bed, her expression shifting from playful to serious.
"You're going to wear the blue sweater and the good jeans.
You're going to do your hair the way you like it, not the way he liked it.
And you're going to go have breakfast with a man who thinks you're worth fighting three guys for. "
My throat feels tight. "What if he only said yes because Maya likes Biscuit?"
"Then he's a good dad who makes time for things that make his kid happy.
Still a point in his favor." She stands up, walks over, and puts her hands on my shoulders.
"But I don't think that's why he said yes.
I think he said yes because you came looking for him.
Because you were brave enough to walk into that grill and say thank you. Because you're pretty and kind."
"You haven't even met him."
"Don't need to. I can see it on your face." She squeezes my shoulders gently. "Wear the sweater. Trust me."
So, I do.
I put on the blue sweater and the good jeans, the ones that fit my curves instead of hiding them, the ones that make me look like I have an actual shape instead of just existing as an amorphous blob.
I do my hair the way I like it, loose and natural, not straightened within an inch of its life the way my ex preferred.
I even put on a little makeup. Not much, just enough to feel put together. To feel like someone worth having breakfast with.
Claire leaves at seven-thirty with strict instructions to text her the moment I get home.
Biscuit and I leave at seven forty-five, even though The Grind is only a ten-minute walk and I'm going to be absurdly early.
I can't help it. I'm too nervous to sit at home anymore, too anxious about what I'm wearing, what I'll say, whether this is the stupidest thing I've ever done.
The morning is beautiful. Crisp and clear, the kind of day that makes you believe in fresh starts. Biscuit is thrilled to be out earlier than usual, sniffing everything like the smells are completely different at this hour.
We reach The Grind at seven-fifty. The outdoor seating area is empty except for a couple reading newspapers.
The heaters are already on, making the space cozy despite the cool air.
I grab a table in the corner, tie Biscuit's leash to the chair, and try to look casual.
Like I'm definitely not freaking out about breakfast with a man I barely know.
Like I definitely didn't spend three hours last night overthinking every possible conversation topic.
Like I definitely don't have the world's most obvious crush on someone I met exactly twenty-four hours ago.